Chapter 9: The Dawn Scour

Fear was a highly effective alarm clock. Long before the first pale sliver of gray light could breach the jagged eastern peaks of the northern mountains, Evangeline’s eyes snapped open in the darkness.

She was sitting upright on the hard wooden floorboards, her back pressed rigidly against the solid oak door. Her body shook with a violent, uncontrollable tremor—partly from the bitter, sub-zero draft sweeping through the glassless window slit, and partly from the sheer adrenaline coursing through her veins. The silver-root poison was still a heavy, leaden ache in her chest, but the terror of being late, the terror of the "consequences" Alpha Torin had threatened, was far more powerful than any numbing toxin.

If you are late, there will be severe consequences.

Torin’s deep, gravelly warning echoed in the quiet corners of her mind. Beside it, her father’s lethal whisper chimed in like a sickening harmony: He will give you to his monsters for their pleasure.

Eva scrambled to her feet, her stiff joints popping painfully in the dark. She didn't dare use the pathetic cot; she hadn't touched it all night, too terrified that if she made herself comfortable, she might oversleep. She quickly checked the heavy iron lace veil resting on the small table, ensuring it was ready for later, but for now, she needed to move. She smoothed down the wrinkled, oversized wool dress that swallowed her frame, took a deep, steadying breath, and quietly slid the heavy iron bolt back.

The click of the lock felt like a betrayal of her safety, but she had a job to do. She had to survive.

Eva slipped out of the southern tower, moving like a ghost down the winding stone spiral staircase. The packhouse was dead silent. The great predators of the Midnight Pack were still asleep in their luxurious, heated quarters on the lower levels, wrapped in heavy furs and the safety of their dominant walls. Eva kept her bare hands pressed against the cold stone wall to guide her, her thin-soled shoes making absolutely no sound against the stairs.

When she reached the ground floor, she followed the rich, lingering scents of roasted meats and old wood-smoke until she found the entrance to the great kitchen.

The room was massive—easily four times the size of the cellar kitchen she had been confined to in the Ironwood Pack. Huge copper cauldrons hung from iron spits over massive, blackened hearths. Long oak prep tables stretched across the center of the room, dusted with leftover flour and grease from the previous night's feast. But what caught Eva’s attention immediately was the floor.

The flagstones were covered in a thick, sticky film of spilled ale, trampled mud from the warriors' boots, and layers of grease. To anyone else, it was a disgusting mess. To Eva, it was a lifeline.

"Clean," she whispered to herself, her voice a fragile rasp in the darkness. "If it's clean, they won't have a reason to punish me."

She scanned the dim room until she found the scullery corner. There, she located a massive wooden bucket, a stiff-bristled scrub brush, and a block of harsh, unperfumed lye soap. There was no hot water in the copper reserves yet, but she didn't care. She lugged the heavy wooden bucket over to the iron pump, throwing her weight into the lever until freezing, well-chilled water gushed out, filling the bucket to the brim.

Eva hauled the heavy weight back to the center of the kitchen floor. Dropping to her hands and knees onto the icy stones, she wet the lye block and began to scrub.

She worked with a frantic, desperate intensity. She didn't just wash the floor; she scoured it. She pressed her entire body weight into the wooden brush, moving her arms in tight, rhythmic circles. The harsh lye soap instantly began to bite into the raw, split skin of her fingers, making her wounds burn with a fierce, blinding heat, but she welcomed the pain. The pain kept her focused. The pain kept her moving.

Left, right, circle, scrub.

She lost track of time in the dark. As she moved across the massive expanse of the room, the physical exertion began to make her sweat despite the freezing cold of the room. The silver-root poison in her blood reacted to the strain, causing cold, greasy sweats to break out across her forehead and neck, but she refused to slow down. She couldn't slow down. Every minute closer to dawn was a minute closer to the wolves waking up.

By the time the first real rays of dawn finally broke over the mountains, casting long, pale beams of amber light through the high kitchen windows, Eva was completely drenched in sweat and soapy water. Her knees were bruised black and blue from the unforgiving flagstones, and her hands were a raw, bleeding mess, the gray lye foam swirling with faint, pink streaks of her own blood.

But the floor was immaculate.

The thick layers of grease were gone. The sticky ale residue had been stripped away. The black flagstones shone beneath the morning light like polished obsidian, completely clear of any trace of the previous night's chaos. Eva stood in the center of her work, her chest heaving as she panted for air, holding the worn scrub brush tightly against her chest like a shield.

Suddenly, a heavy footstep echoed in the corridor outside.

Eva’s heart stopped. Her entire body locked up, her eyes widening in pure, primal terror as the heavy oak door of the kitchen began to swing open. She looked down at her bleeding hands, then at the bucket of dirty water, panic screaming in her mind. Did I miss a spot? Is it not clean enough? Please, don't let them hurt me.

She shrank back against the nearest prep table, her head bowing instantly, her shoulders hitching up to shield her neck as she prepared herself for the inevitable wrath of the Midnight Pack.